


Like Jammed Bullets

by oudeteron



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oudeteron/pseuds/oudeteron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ocelot's pursuit of Big Boss takes on a multitude of forms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Define Torture

**Author's Note:**

> These "chapters" were stand-alone one-shots in the first instance, but I've decided to repost them together as they all deal with a similar theme. Also, to spare the archive.
> 
> Summary & notes on Chapter 1: It's one thing to be captured on the battlefield, quite another to wind up in a makeshift torture chamber at the hands of your unreasonably attached ex-rival who can't make up his mind about the procedure. (No actual torture occurs here despite the highly tasteful title, but there is some dubcon. Supposedly set between Snake Eater and the San Hieronymo Takeover; location classified.)

“I did say we would meet again.”

His first realization – and a relief, too – was that no serious injury had been done to him. The second was less uplifting: there were ropes tied around his wrists, unconnected, each stretching his arm in a different direction to hold him upright. A perfect torture position, he suspected immediately; he tried to move his arms about, but it was no use. Not to mention he knew that voice, and just its association with the current arrangement caused him to grumble, “No _way_...”

“What's the matter, Snake? Big Boss? Although I prefer John, personally.”

It was Ocelot. He had his set of guns all right, spinning them in an indulgent fashion that was downright irritating to look at, especially for a man with his range of movement severely restricted. “Snake's fine,” the prisoner replied.

“All right, Snake,” was Ocelot's answer with a hint of a smile playing about his mouth. He was now approaching in careful slow steps, his hands still a dizzying swirl of motion. “It's just the two of us again.” He tilted his head, surveying Snake through narrowed eyes, his signature red beret contrasting sharply with the dungeon's insipid grey.

“Still wearing that thing? Went better with your old outfit, I'm afraid.” Not that Ocelot wasn't sporting a fine uniform this time, even if slightly less ostentatious than the one Snake had first seen him in during that godforsaken mission. Where exactly did his allegiances lie now?

As if intercepting his train of thought, Ocelot allowed his hands to grind to a halt, leaving his gun-toys hanging off whatever finger they happened to be on when momentum wore off. “I'm here on no mission.”

“Not a mission? Why the ropes and weapons, then?”

For a second, Ocelot seemed almost ashamed. Then he shrugged and dropped his revolvers to the floor; they landed with a couple sinister clicks. Another step brought him to less than a metre within Snake's vicinity.

“Careful you don't ruin your immaculate uniform if you don't stay right where you are,” Snake said in a tone of mock-concern. “I'd hate to bear the weight of such an atrocity for the rest of my life, Adamska.”

For a second it looked as if Ocelot were about to burst out laughing, but soon his countenance regained its businesslike smoothness as he deliberately moved even closer. “I appreciate your concern,” he all but purred, and Snake fought the urge to scoff at the ridiculous resemblance this proud officer momentarily had to his codename. But his amusement faded as soon as Ocelot raised his hand towards that cap of his, a strange glint in his eyes. “I'm grateful for your advice, as you know,” he glanced at the discarded revolvers, “since it has proven useful before. So, you don't like my choice of accessory?” With a kind of near-reverence, he bared his head in front of Snake. “I'd better put it someplace you don't have to look at it, then.” With that, he settled the beret on top of Snake's head.

“Ocelot!”

“I hope that's better,” the officer rejoined. Snake knew before anything else had a chance to happen that these petty jokes were barely the start – nothing would shock him anymore about this clearly obsessive, conceited, dangerous gunslinger of a major. Nothing, that is, until Ocelot fell to his knees before him with a fixed stare and an assurance, “As for my uniform, I promise it won't be the principal focus of the next few minutes. Relax and forget about it.”

And Ocelot's fingers were on his belt. The button of his trousers, then the zipper, pulled down, further in, and Snake felt the other's breath on the just exposed skin. For his part, Snake could only gasp when Ocelot's breath became lips, lips became tongue, tongue became a slide further in. He was soon channelling Ocelot's advice to relax, if quite in spite of himself. This wasn't about norms or expectations; there was nothing that could disqualify Ocelot's temporary hold on him, the reality of their touch. They were no different from each other here. There was no contradiction.

He could struggle all he wanted against the bonds, but it was no use – he could barely tell the difference between the ropes locked around his wrists and the iron grip Ocelot kept on him. There would be bruises on his hips for certain. In grudging acquiescence, Snake felt the rising heat, could already tell he would not last long. He gave a few more half-hearted shoves at the ropes he was quickly losing consciousness of, tried to shake himself free...

There was silence.

When he looked down, Ocelot was staring at him with a self-satisfied little grin. His fly was still undone, and a fresh mess to boot. Snake could feel his heart rate returning to normal, which didn't help much with the fact that his entire body was sensitive – strung up, literally and sarcastically. He could all but hear Ocelot say it.

Still smirking, Ocelot rocked back and forth on his heels, no doubt uncomfortable but betraying not the slightest trace of it. Once a seemingly uncontrolled – carefully orchestrated, of course – swing forward almost caused him to land face-first in Snake's crotch, and he faked a last-minute grab on to Snake's legs to prevent such gracelessness. Lips brushing against the pubic hair, he whispered with a vengeance, “Sucks not to be in control, doesn't it, Big Boss?”

The only reason Snake didn't knee him in the face was his own intense disorientation. Come to think of it, how long had it been since he had last drunk? He had indeed been trained to survive, but under the present circumstances, dehydration was far from a welcome option. He needed to keep his wits about him, if nothing else. Passing out would hardly qualify.

Not that Ocelot cared. Pulling away a fraction, he ran his hands up Snake's thighs, hips, abdomen, chest, standing up himself as he went. He stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. Snake stood there sagging in his bonds, quietly contemplating how scathing a one-eyed glare he could produce.

“Don't tell me that's left you speechless,” Ocelot remarked nonchalantly.

Finally coming to, Snake shook his head in defiance, “You wish.”

It seemed that Ocelot had predicted the retort, for he showed no sign of being offended by the other's ever-sharp tongue. Instead, he approached Snake again, but this time his tread didn't stop where it had before. Snake gave an involuntary twitch as Ocelot glided over behind him. The first and vital battlefield rule was to keep the enemy in his sights; having someone like Ocelot pressed to his back while his own hands were tied, his trousers unzipped and his eyesight reduced to half its former scope was positively _the_ most incriminating situation Snake could imagine himself in. And as far as eyesight was concerned...

“I'm sorry,” Ocelot breathed, gently sliding his palm over Snake's good eye.

He still had his fucking _gloves_ on, the bastard. Fine leather. Snake did his utmost not to betray his apprehension, but he'd bet money on Ocelot's horribly improving ability to read him. Unless he assumed Snake was the type to enjoy this, in which he'd be fatally mistaken.

“You don't seem to be protesting much,” said Ocelot with disturbing clairvoyance. The guy had an uncanny knack for getting to him, Snake had to give him that.

“That's because I'm no whining rookie.”

Snake felt Ocelot's hand cramp, and then his vision – or what was left of it, anyway – was unobstructed again. Well, this was entertaining. “Why the conviction I meant you, Adamska?” he asked with false sincerity. If he was going to get abused by an officer with a hard-on and an unsettling penchant for drawn-out torture, he might as well have a laugh himself.

The only strange thing was that Ocelot didn't seem very keen on the abuse. He unquestionably had the upper hand and wasn't putting it to more use than pressing Snake's body to his with it. They both knew what Ocelot wanted, so what was with all these reservations?

“Right, it would be so easy that way, _John_. Leave you tied up and have my way with you.” Disengaging himself, Ocelot moved to the side, slowly returning to stand before the prisoner again. There was only the barest tremor of hesitation when he kissed Snake on the mouth, lips closed. He leant his forehead against Snake's briefly, drawing a sharp breath as he did so. Snake tensed instinctively. If seeing Ocelot stride towards him juggling two guns had made a daunting picture, then this opaque reluctance took the tension to another level entirely.

The lull lasted for just several seconds, though. Ocelot raised his gaze again, then cast it down – and with curt, impersonal movements began to button up Snake's trousers. His fingers were infinitely clumsier than Snake remembered them ever handling a weapon.

“Surprised?” Ocelot nearly snarled. His voice was steadily rising even as he reached into Snake's command vest to steal the captive's knife. “You're standing there, wondering why I don't indulge the rest of my sick urges and get it over with, like there was no respect between us. Torture--” he slashed with the knife above their heads, cutting one of the ropes in half, “or mindless rape, where's the difference?” The remaining rope was sliced; Snake's right arm painfully resumed its natural position. But he stood stock-still as Ocelot continued: “Could be you or some anonymous recruit kid who's too intimidated to fight back. Suppose that's why I bother? That's how I want it? What kind of man do you think I am?”

They faced each other across scarce centimetres. Then it dawned on Snake he could finally move again, and he acted as impulse commanded.

He grabbed Ocelot by the shoulders and kissed him.

In an instant he'd forced his way past the other's lips, wholly on account of shock value. He wasn't sure what he was doing until Ocelot recovered enough to respond. Snake spread his fingers on Ocelot's back, crushing them both together, only half-aware Ocelot was doing the same. The kiss was utter chaos. For a pair of highly effective killers, they were far from coordinated in this _whatever_ was even going on.

Snake pulled away and there was no doubt about it: he could see it plain as day in the major's feverish gaze, Ocelot's untold attraction to him. With confirmation, Snake realized he was quite above feigning surprise or putting up a token show of revulsion. In a way, it was flattering someone of Ocelot's skill and arrogance idolized him so shamelessly. Moreover, it was Ocelot whose expression was one of undisguised shellshock, as though he didn't believe the past few minutes had actually happened.

It was a pity when the moment broke.

Taking Ocelot completely off guard, Snake seized him by the now rumpled uniform and forced him several steps backwards, walking with certainty himself to compensate for Ocelot's unsteady fumbling. At last they made it to the lockers by the far wall; Ocelot's back collided with the surface with a thud as Snake unscrupulously rammed him against it. Ocelot gave a ragged yelp at the impact, clearly caught between enjoyment and confusion. Snake's movements, ingrained with training to be as familiar as the appendages dealing them, ran ahead of his mind when he struck once more and twisted Ocelot around, face to door with the locker they stood against.

“Dammit!”

He grasped both of Ocelot's wrists and pinned them down on either side of the man's head; he spread Ocelot's feet apart with his boots. Unmindful of propriety or any of the burning contact sensation, Snake used this all to press himself closer. He had Ocelot effectively trapped.

Their breath came hard and unsynchronized, adding to all the awkwardness. They were both sweaty, encased in sticky fabric; every seam, button or buckle digging into the flesh beneath with heightened urgency. Snake had to try his best not to lean his head on the back of Ocelot's moist neck as he spoke, “You cut those bonds rather than take full advantage, even though you obviously wanted to. You prefer free will to coercion with those you respect. Does you credit.” He loosened his hold temporarily, only to spin Ocelot around again, bringing their faces together. It was evident the man was shaken, otherwise he would never have been so unresisting to Snake's CQC.

In fact, shaken was a slight understatement. Ocelot's eyes were still glazed, his normally pale skin flushed with random reddish stains; he apparently suffered from the inelegant sort of blushing. His breathing had not calmed – on the contrary, his whole body resembled a coiled spring in desperate need of releasing. Or a bomb seconds before detonation.

Snake straightened up. “You keep getting better.” Confident Ocelot wouldn't escape in the upcoming few seconds, he reached for the beret still perched on his head like some sort of territory marker. “But there's still something you should take to heart if you ever hope to have your way.” He returned the cap to Ocelot, settling it on his head where it belonged. _“Integrity isn't always rewarded.”_

*

Snake's footsteps faded in the distance. The room still smelt of him – or merely of the situation, but that made little difference to Ocelot as he stood by the locker just where Snake had left him. His sweaty, smelly clothes were cooling against his cramped chest, his belly, crotch and thighs; everywhere John had touched there was thin air. Why, ruined was precisely the word. With a pang of humiliation, Ocelot defied shivering. Was he never going to best this man? He should have kept him restrained – he would have – if that was any way to fight Big Boss. Frustrated, infuriated, Ocelot let his back slide down the dampened locker door.

“You filthy American...” he tried, not meaning it.


	2. Instruments of Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ocelot has always enjoyed a little competition, especially when there were hidden benefits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rivalry between Ocelot and Mantis is largely inspired by [The Last Days of FOXHOUND](http://gigaville.com/comic.php?id=1). I went with the interpretation that Mantis has an aversion to sex in general (even if it may be an assumption more than anything), just because it makes the contrast between him and Ocelot's penchant for innuendo that much more striking.
> 
> (Warnings: POV shifts, crack, abuse of classical music, Ocelot's head, and Mantis being exposed to his phobias.)

Ocelot entered what passed for Big Boss's office: a plain but elegant room with a marble floor, high windows flanking a large desk with its load of necessary papers and devices, and a decent leather couch by the opposite wall. In a way, it was rather stereotypical – nearly as much as the soft, untraceable music playing in the background. Walking silently except for the faint clicking of his spurs, the intruder approached the desk, leaning against the edge. Even as the sole occupant of the office, he had that aura of impenetrable confidence that seemed to be his default.

Minutes passed in a blur of fast-forward until the door opened again, admitting a formidable figure that was at once recognized as the room's regular proprietor. Big Boss barely stirred when he noticed Ocelot had besieged his workplace. Instead, he seemed to incline his head in greeting.

Ocelot gave a verbal answer, “Thanks for the security clearance. You don't mind that I invited myself, of course.”

“Of course,” Big Boss snorted, not waiting for indication of any sort before he joined Ocelot at the desk, sitting a little too close. He tipped his head back, “What a day. Where are those fake death pills when you need them.”

It appeared Ocelot knew what the complaint was about, as he immediately nodded in assent. “If it helps, I'm set on distracting you.” He shot Big Boss a meaningful look, earning himself a low chuckle. His foot slid across the floor towards Big Boss's. What looked like a teenagerish attempt at flirting became something more treacherous, more in-character when Ocelot hooked his ankle around the other's and pulled sharply. His spur caught in the hem of Big Boss's trousers, and the slight imbalance that resulted was enough of an opening for Ocelot to lunge and send Big Boss to the floor. The impact produced an unsettling crunch as the victim's joints collided with the unforgiving marble. Big Boss grunted in pain; the music morphed into an orchestral roar conspicuously resembling something out of Wagner's _Ring Cycle_.

Pressing his advantage, Ocelot crouched beside Big Boss, then climbed on top of him to be sure he could hold him down. Inside layers of formal clothing, their bodies were evenly matched. Ocelot lowered his face. For some obscure reason, Big Boss did not seem overly disturbed for someone who had just been knocked down by a trusted ally. Their noses were brushing and Ocelot's medium-length hair framed both their faces when he asked, “This working for you?”

“Starting to,” said Big Boss, arching his back – and rolling the two of them over, pressed his forearm to Ocelot's neck just hard enough to prevent him from lifting his head. Interestingly, Ocelot's response was a genuine smile, albeit a somewhat choked one. One of his gloved hands crept across Big Boss's back, kneading the muscles in a way that looked painful, although he surely knew how to go about this because the effect on his captor was instantaneous. Relaxing by the slightest degree, Big Boss bent his head to lay it on the other's chest, making the scene ironically evocative of a kitten in his owner's arms. Not that people ever _owned_ cats. Cats were nature's psychics, not servants to human whims.

The scene was just the calm before the storm hit. Suddenly Ocelot's fingers twisted in the fabric and his other arm came up to grab Big Boss, pushing him off. He did not stop there, however; springing up almost too youthfully, he pulled Big Boss with him by the collar until the older man was on his knees.

Grinning, Ocelot demanded, “Who wins?”

Big Boss gave an impression of looking to the side, and this breach of eye-contact provided sufficient for him to take Ocelot off guard. They spent a moment squabbling over the desk, during which time Big Boss managed to pin Ocelot down to the mess of scattered papers, but Ocelot countered this with the unbelievably dishonest trick of kicking out with one of his boots. The unexpected sting of his spur robbed his opponent of balance just as Ocelot needed. Exploiting this chance to the fullest, he tore himself free of Big Boss's grip, rendering him immobile from behind. With impossible quickness he drew his trademark revolver and pressed the muzzle to Big Boss's neck. “Well?” he half-growled, half-laughed.

“Will you never let it go?”

“Not a chance.”

Big Boss sighed. “All right.” And he grabbed Ocelot's hand, pulled the trigger – the only result being the predictable click of the empty barrel – and in doing so managed to twist the weapon out of Ocelot's control. Throwing the gun away, letting it land on his computer's keyboard, he jabbed at Ocelot's ribcage with his elbow to force him backwards. The effect was barely there, but enough for Big Boss to extricate himself and face Ocelot head-on in turn. For all the competition between them, neither was aiming to cause actual injury; that much was obvious from the subdued nature of the ensuing tussle.

Backing away from Ocelot to take a breath, Big Boss calculated his next move. Whether or not it would have been the winning one lost all relevance the next moment, though: the last step he took was unguarded, a mistake that would have been costly on the battlefield. In his own office, it merely landed him on his back atop the temporarily forgotten couch. Ocelot wasted no time and pounced.

He let out a triumphant chuckle as he straddled the other's hips. Blissfully disregarding Big Boss's expression, he implored, “Say it.”

A moment of silence so tense it could be felt – and then, to Ocelot's visible stupefaction, Big Boss relaxed beneath him. He raised his arms in a conciliatory gesture, both of his hands coming to rest on Ocelot's shoulders. In the dim light it became suddenly, irrevocably clear that Big Boss was tired. Too tired, for once, to carry on the fight.

“You win.”

The tumultuous music died away, replaced with a discreet tingling melody. Ocelot knew better than to tease the other man now, so all he gave in response was a nod. Did he need this meaningless victory, too private to ever brag about? His fingers worked on Big Boss's shirt, eyes all but glued to the rising-falling chest beneath. He removed Big Boss's eyepatch to kiss the blind wound; this elicited a strangled moan in the space between acceptance and anger. Ocelot honoured the implication in time, switching his attentions to the other's lips. Big Boss's entire body surged against him.

All this needed now was a fanfare--

♯ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♪

“What are you doing? Why did you stop, _we're not done yet_!” Ocelot protested.

“Ocelot, that – that was enough!”

That conniving freak shook his head in a condescending fashion that would have caused me to hurl all the room's (admittedly rather Spartan) furnishings at him, had I not been preoccupied with purging the imprint of his ridiculous hormonal outburst from my mind. I could tell Ocelot was watching, could hear the condescension in his voice as he spoke, “Well, you were the one who just wouldn't _believe_ I'd ever defeated Big Boss. Truth to be told, most people wouldn't take my word for it. Luckily _you_ fall into the negligible portion of the population that possesses the ability to go and simply _check_ whether someone's telling the truth or not. How convenient for us, isn't it?”

I looked up and his eyes were alight above his self-satisfied smirk; I contemplated diving back into his mind to try to confound him, but decided against aggravating the trauma. I was _not_ watching him or anyone else spill his bodily fluids. This time he had gone too far. At least neither of them could have ended up with the other's children - I gagged inside my gas mask at the mere idea. Still, I knew he had not made up what I'd seen, if one discounted the embellishments of incidental music or speeding up time. Not even he could fool me by lying and he knew it. Indeed, he'd tricked me by the truth.

“Convenient for _you_ , perhaps,” I managed at last, even sounding more or less composed. Ocelot was still wearing that despicable grin of his. He might have intrigued me once, but I was never going to touch that filthy mind again. Even if it meant forsaking revenge.

No doubt he understood that, too. That depraved piece of garbage, he'd worm his way into the bed of anyone if the stakes were high enough; worse, he'd do it for _sport_. Him and his “long silver bullets”. He was such an – ugh, here came those images again--

"I'm afraid I'd better be going," I heard Ocelot say over the incessant hum of Wagner. "My gun needs some polishing for tonight, and I'd rather have _that_ taken care of before Solid Snake arrives. Please, Mantis... try to hold him up."

He shrugged and strutted off, victorious.


	3. 198X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ocelot was lucky that his deeds were still forgivable, at least enough to allow for a reunion. (Hypothetically post- _Peace Walker_.)

“Damn, but I missed you.”

The admission was unbelievably pathetic, but if he'd already taken the plunge and demonstrated the fact in vivid physical terms, the words themselves were little more than an afterthought. Nothing to lose at this point. Even the part of his mind that scorned sentimental platitudes and should have acted as a reliable deterrent was silent.

“If only I had that kind of time,” sounded the reply; amused, acquiescent.

Time isn't what you have but what you make, thought Ocelot wryly without pressing the point; he could, after all, attest to that better than anyone. Either he made the time or time caught up with him, in the small hours before dawn when the horizon was at its darkest, or when he aimed his revolver for a ricochet shot. In casual chatter amongst his comrades-of-the-moment, insignificant scraps his well-honed spy's instinct picked out of the static for no reason. Only so that he'd know how many of them had families they could barely feed, lovers they didn't get to see and yet clung to for their daily dose of desperate motivation.

Ocelot had never pitied himself next to them, but he did remember well enough to be capable of flashbacks.

That could have been a factor in how this little reunion had played out – not that he minded that now, of course. Not having dared to hope was more the case. Granted, Big Boss had been the one to contact him – how he'd actually managed, Ocelot had no idea – but for all the message had said it could have been a belated call for vengeance. Yet in spite of that possibility, Ocelot had found it unthinkable not to oblige - so here they were, miraculously contained within one room of a dingy motel on Central American mainland, quiet and sated on the bed. Surreal, the unassuming comfort of it.

Of course Big Boss had asked at first: was Ocelot still Zero's associate? Had EVA been all right after the experiment? He'd given half-answers to sensitive subjects and honest ones where it made no difference, and fortunately Big Boss seemed to be wise enough to expect nothing else. Not on a truce as fragile as they had this night.

Ocelot stretched a little, the movement languid but sufficient to disturb the position they'd settled into a short while ago. His lack of consideration was met with a subdued grunt that really shouldn't have felt as endearing to him as it did.

“What, getting tough to stay awake these days?”

“Breaking curfew just isn't as exciting for us grown-ups,” Big Boss shot back easily, evidently not much better on the teasing front.

Ocelot snorted. “I bet you say that to all the new recruits.”

“Who died and made you a recruit?”

Wriggling around to get face-to-face, Ocelot shut him up with a kiss.

There'd be no full-blown second round that night, but that did nothing to hamper their enjoyment. The opportunity to take in this near-impossible situation was just as well, at least where Ocelot was concerned. Hands glued to the other's skin with both sweat and greedy fascination, he did his best to relearn the contours of the body he hadn't laid eyes upon in years. Was that a new scar just there? He rubbed his fingers over the roughly repaired tissue, a bit curious but not especially keen to ask.

Their hips rocked at a lazy pace, no purpose to the motion but to preserve the steady glide of skin. Pure familiarity, neither about to bother with more exertion. Leaning his forehead on Big Boss's shoulder, Ocelot gave a drawn-out sigh.

It figured. Somehow, it always did for him.

Eventually they went still again, content to lie tangled in the sheets. Knot of cheap smelly fabric that would have long since been dumped in a vat of acid if there was any justice, Ocelot mused with indignation that was half-hearted at best. It wasn't long before the fingers threading through his hair stole his attention once again.

“You weren't bluffing,” said Big Boss matter-of-factly. “That's even longer than I expected.”

“I should be grateful that's all the commentary you're going to enlighten me with.”

The hands stalled, then resumed their routine. Greying strands curling round tanned fingers. “Come on. There are so many better things I could annoy you with.”

“I'm sure there are.”

“Doesn't mean I'm not glad to see you, Adamska.”

At that, Ocelot had to laugh out loud. “Please, _John_ , don't even bother. You knew I'd take you up on the offer the moment you sent that note of yours. The least you could do is admit that much.”

No reply came to that, no argument. Tonight was armistice.


End file.
